


Itch.

by wintershellraiser



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), The Dark Knight
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, F/M, Implied/Referenced Torture, Major Character Injury, Permanent Injury, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Torture, Self-Harm, Self-Mutilation, Serious Injuries, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 02:22:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29502657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintershellraiser/pseuds/wintershellraiser
Summary: J has flashbacks. He feels an itch.
Relationships: Joker (DCU)/Reader, Joker/Reader, ledger joker/reader, tdk joker/reader
Kudos: 5





	Itch.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write about J’s habits and how I view he got his scars again, but more realistically. Originally I wrote this for myself but I wanted to share it. I hope you enjoy~

Blood might as well be a shade in your pillowcases and skin by now.

Fascinating….how the brain works once it is infected with the disease of trauma. You were no stranger to it, you had your own trauma to deal with. What you knew about J was he had flashbacks with triggers unbeknownst to you, they were just as erratic as the man himself. J was unpredictable, even with how long you had known him. You never spoke about his past or how he came to wear the smile on his skin, you only knew that what he told people was a lie. Though, each story held truth, most of the dulled citizens couldn’t figure that out, if they were still alive after their encounter with J. 

J had a craving that couldn’t be fed. A plague that ate away at his soul, his nerves twitched when he felt it. Like an itch, one that cannot be scratched. The itch began to burn, it felt as if he had maggots crawling beneath his skin. His scars throbbed, yearned for attention. They always did before he had a flash memory of the first carving.

_Jack had been missing for days, his troop hadn’t any idea where he was, but assumed him dead. No one waited for him, his troop abandoned their stance and left him to die. Jack was a stubborn man and wouldn’t succumb to any torture, as proven over the course of a few months he was kept. They tried everything, from psychological tortures to physical ones, Jack wore the beatings and permanent scars along his body. His back marred and whipped raw, his lungs burned from drowning over and over again. His body got to know the limits of temperatures, his skin wore iron branding and reopened wounds they hoped to infect._

_He bled out many times, starved and fed morsels and worms, just enough to keep him alive. Drank dirty water once a week. Nothing he got was clean or nutritious. His wounds were rotting with disease, dirt and blood covered his body, his clothes were stripped from him long ago and he remained bare and vulnerable. Chained to the wall like a dog. Matted and starved. Huddled in a cage too small and poked and prodded for shits and giggles. When he doesn’t respond, it gets worse. Prods turned to scolding irons and electric rods. His body wore scars and welts unseen on a human before. His throat repeatedly punched and damaged to ensure his silence, his eyes swollen and bloody from the violent cutting of his tear ducts._

_No more tears, no matter now hard he wanted to cry._

_His pain was broadcast, his identity destroyed, no one could track where the videos were coming from so no one could help. His identity had been hidden, his tattoos were skinned off. Nothing identifiable. Just an American man being tortured in an attempt to intimidate the military and gain secrets. Jack was nothing to anyone. Not even himself. He hated himself for being so weak. He was a soldier, the leader of his troops, a sergeant that was feared upon his men. Yet here he was, beaten to a royal purple and accented with a ruby coat to his wounds._

_His tongue was feisty, though he never returned the sadistic smile his captors gave during the tortures, which they took as an insult. All they did was laugh and mock, Jack never responded back._

_‘Aren’t you having fun?’_

_‘I don’t think he is, where’s your smile, soldier?’_

_What came was an excruciating cut from the corner of his lip to a curve below his cheekbone. A thin, deep slice that was made with a rusted blade. Not only did the knife burn as it slid through his flesh, but the bits of rust melted into his blood like hot embers. Jack remembered screaming, but choked on blood. He remembers being left by his captors to die. He remembers the pain. He remembers surviving._

_Jack survived but he would never be the same. When he found his troops again, they saw him as a scrawny man, skeletal and covered in blood, bruises, and welts. His cheek bled so bad he had black blood clots and a severe infection from the rust. Treatment was expensive, painful, and long, a permanent scar would remain. He hated how he looked. He was treated differently because of it, like a freak. Society stared and mocked, made him feel like an outcast despite himself serving. He would’ve cared what people felt when they saw him but he didn’t. He had seen death, stared her in the face and asked to die a many, she always said no. Even on the verge of bleeding out of his face, the last time he actually wished to die, begged through thick gargles. But…he survived. How curious._

_His mind was broken, there was nothing any psychiatrist could do. No matter how many pills he was put on, how many he took, he would not heal. No one could recover from what he went through. Days and nights mixed and he just felt like he was existing. His face hurt every day, he refused to take medication he was given, believing it would alter his brain. He didn’t want his mind to be reverted to when he was caged. No matter how hard he scowled or frowned, his face would remain stiff with a half smile. One he constantly had to hide from civilization, otherwise be mobbed. He had been beaten by rogue gangs and harassed through the streets for his disfigurement._

_Jack had enough of the repetitive behavior of people, his life had turned to one of torture, a constant state of pain. He was intrigued by it, his body had endured so much and still it felt the sting of cuts and the heat of punches. Jack cared not about symmetry, however, this was his life now. He might as well own his life instead of letting people treat him however they saw him. A rusted mirror sat luringly reflected at him, his face mocking his intentions. It somehow knew what he was thinking, as he got closer and collapsed to his knees, he could see his jagged, half healed scar. His hand gripped a blade conveniently sitting on the concrete with trash and various alcohol bottles, oh how the mirror knew. The mirror knew what he wanted to do, what he needed to do._

_For the first time, the itch came. ___

__J sat up in bed, a little quicker than normal. Burning tissue signaled his brain and his palms shook against the mattress. His eyes were lidded, a hypnotic state overtaking his body while the flashback played through his mind. A stained hand tossed the sheets off his body, legs swung over and led him to the bathroom he shared with you. Before entering, he looked over to your form, observing your steadily breathing body for a short period to ensure you were still in a deep sleep. Once he was confident, he walked into the bathroom, the sting now burning as his hands felt like static._ _

__The light flicked on, his painted face smeared and faded, the scars a blushy pink to show gentle healing. J allowed himself to reach up and graze his fingertips over one of his scars, a startling serene expression on his face. His demeanor contrasted his face, a sheep in wolf’s clothing. His fist collided with the mirror and shattered it—pieces of reflective glass sinking into his flesh. His knuckles bled the instant the serrated material kissed his muscle and bone. J didn’t flinch, didn’t wince, didn’t hiss. He _grinned.__ _

____A grin he only expressed when he hurt others. When he hurt himself. His hand reached down and opened one of the drawers by your sink, searching as if it had a mind of its own. Possessed eyes striking his own soul, he couldn’t tear himself from his own, now broken, reflection. His hand found what it wanted, a forbidden companion. A tool to aid in his addiction and a remedy to nullify it._ _ _ _

____J brought the scissors to his face and opened them completely, holding one of the blades like a knife while using his palm to keep them separated. He took the blade and drug it across the groove of his right scar, a short yet quick movement to slice the flesh open. Once, twice, over and over. The sudden white searing delayed before it erupted through the exposed muscle, blood oozing from each new cut he gave. Deeper and deeper, the laceration grew, spitting darker blood as it poured down his chin and onto the sink. He grunted when he broke through his cheek completely, not from the corner of his mouth just yet, but there was a bloodied gash straight through his cheek, making his scar messier, more protruding, it would heal more jagged than before—if he gave it time to heal._ _ _ _

____J switched hands, the one that held the scissors was a deep shade of red. He grinned through the pain as he began to violently rip and slice at the other scar. He gurgled while repeatedly swallowing mouthful after mouthful of blood. The eye contact J made with the man in the mirror was validating, it made him feel in control. He held all the cards, a full deck in his hands while others had nothing, no one could compete for control. “Mirror, mirror on the wall—“ J’s voice was groggy, scratchy, but so alive. His mind was clouded with memory, perhaps he felt less pain because of that. Maybe he just didn’t feel pain anymore, the receptors in his cheeks were numb. He repeated the phrase ‘Mirror, mirror,’ with each yank of the blade, his mind and body breaking as he allowed himself to become submissive to the craving he was plagued with._ _ _ _

____By the time he had finished mutilating his face, he stared at his new grin. Even with the lights in the bathroom illuminating the scene, his eyes were completely dead, no light reflecting back. J was steadily drinking his own blood, becoming drugged off of the heavy metallic scent filling your bathroom. He cocked his head and decided he wasn’t exactly finished with his look. The itch was still there, his hands tingled with anticipation. J began cutting off chunks of his cheek where he had ripped his scar open, cutting his lip and making the scar deeper than before. More blood, the more the better. His finger drug through the laceration on his cheek and spread the blood all over his smile._ _ _ _

____You had stirred, sensing J was no longer in bed with you. When you felt his warm body was absent, you rolled over in bed and looked to the bathroom. The light from the door caught your attention. Reluctantly, you eventually stood and stretched, slowly trudging to the cracked door. “J…” you mumbled, rubbing your eye, “Are you okay?” There was a pause and then a slam against the wall, the light shut off and set both rooms back to the darkness. You were caught off guard, jumping a little as the sleep left your body. Even though you were scared, you were concerned, this was highly unusual. “What the hell J!” You groaned and opened the door, your bare foot stepping into a warm puddle. Instantly your brain ripped your foot from the tiled floor, the heat shocking your senses. “The fuck…”_ _ _ _

____Your hand found the light and flicked it on…right into a scene from a horror film. Blood was everywhere, it coated everything. There was so much of it that it pooled on the floor. Your eyes fearfully lead you around, the sink, the broken mirror, the floor…right to your J. Hunched over the mirror, hair falling over his face and shielding him. He wore purple pinstripe pants, his suspenders hung down, he was shirtless and shameless. His body was covered in scars of different sizes and shapes. Some looked like they were caused by bullets, some like blades, some along his sides were dark, nearly black and they had black lightning spreading through his body. Like small, faint spider veins, probably resulting from some sort of electric device you decided to not think about. You knew he had electroshock therapy, but you didn’t think they did that to the body, so these curious scars had a different origin. His hands were coated in a ruby’s embrace, you weren’t an idiot, you assumed something had happened. “J, look at me,” you spoke, more fear in your voice than you had expected. His body tensed, scars flexing and crawling with his muscles._ _ _ _

____J stood fully, turning to you slowly, revealing himself rather theatrically. His jaw hung wide open, he allowed gravity to pull his jaw down, the reopened scars clotting in an attempt to stop all the blood from leaking. With the looks of things, the amount of blood he lost should’ve caused his body to pass out by now. You were taken aback, however the sight was so shocking for you, it took a while before you realized what he did. You were processing as he stared you down, his eyes locking to you while his hand gripped the scissors. Light reflected from the small weapon and flashed through your eye, instantly catching your attention. Panic set in your body but you kept control, “Give me the scissors.” You quietly demanded, your voice soft and keeping a calm tone to ensure his behavior remain docile and passive. However, J was like a wild animal, one wrong move, word, look…and he snaps. Your hand reaches out, moving at a snails pace, “J…the scissors…can I have them?” You were inches from them, your hand turned to expose your palm but the movement proved too fast and J instinctively swiped the scissors up, slitting your forearm from your elbow to your mid-forearm, a few inches below your wrist._ _ _ _

____You yelped in pain and gripped your new wound, holding it tight and wincing. “A-Aah…J…” you whimpered and looked up at him, noticing he paused. You took the opportunity and rushed over, ripping the scissors from him. He didn’t fight you, he just watched. You threw them behind you, not exactly caring where they ended up. Tears fell down your cheeks while realization hit you. J likes to hurt himself, no surprise really, but it was how he was hurting himself that scared you. No wonder why his scars were so jagged._ _ _ _

____The first aid kit was grabbed before you could think twice and you began to slowly bandage his cheeks, you looked up how on your phone since this was a serious gash and you knew nothing about stitching deep cuts. Especially on someone’s face. Lots of gauze was used to clean them, you found that the flesh of a deep cut was interesting, more textured than you thought before. This could also just be because these areas were previously traumatized. It took you nearly two hours before you secured his cheeks, it wasn’t the best job but it was something. “Why…why do you do this…” you whimpered, sniffling while you thought about J hurting himself like this._ _ _ _

____He couldn’t exactly speak, he grunted, but that didn’t mean anything. He was clean so you lead him back to bed, he appeared to be sober again, off the high of harming himself. The entire time you were bandaging him, he looked drugged, as if he were in a trance. You didn’t know much about his episodes, since J was normally alone during them. This was the first one you witnessed, and you hoped it would be the last. J stared at you, his eyes gluing to the cut on your arm._ _ _ _

____A warm, firm hand gripped your wrist and J stood up. Silently pulling you to the bathroom and sitting you on the toilet, he sat on the edge of the bathtub while he grabbed everything one would need to clean and bandage a cut. You were skeptical, but you decided to allow him to treat you. His behavior was strange, normally J wouldn’t bother with helping you since you are capable of doing it yourself. You didn’t know what changed his mind, you let yourself believe this was his way of apologizing for giving you the cut. It was an accident, when he did cut you, his eyes flashed confusion, he didn’t appear to recognize you in the moments that took place._ _ _ _

____“Why do you hurt yourself like that?” You asked gently, watching his hands wrap a gauze around your laceration. He made a low sound, rumbling from his chest to his throat, the only answer you’d get for the time being. You assume it hurt to speak now, since his cuts would be irritable until they scabbed and reconnected. According to the site you went to, it would take a good few weeks for them to heal. So you had J for a few weeks at least and he would be grumpy. “Is there something I can do to stop this?” You asked again, trying something different and easier to answer._ _ _ _

____J shook his head._ _ _ _

____“Let’s just…forget about this and go to bed. I just want to sleep.” You looked down at your arm and rubbed the gauze, “Are you gonna be okay…I mean, I don’t know what happened or what made you do this but…I just need to know.”_ _ _ _

____“M’fine.” He grumbled roughly, standing and dragging you back to bed. You were baffled and confused, J had always been a wildcard, his behavior was never a set thing. He could act one way during a situation and differently the next time that exact situation comes again. You took his more…docile behavior to be a result of sleep deprivation and blood loss. J moved from your side and collapsed on the bed, rolling onto his side and facing the wall. You sighed, a conversation would be pointless so you just got in with him, laying on his side so you were closest to the door. J didn’t fight, perhaps he didn’t care anymore. You didn’t either, you just wanted to sleep and make sure he was okay. The air was metallic and rusty, you’d get used to it soon enough._ _ _ _

____Your sheets and skin began to tint red._ _ _ _


End file.
